A Heavy Pebble

(This post is part of a series exploring the synaesthesia of written word and music. Please press play before reading :)

The fish and chip shop at the end of the promenade. The empty ice cream shack with broken windows. The dancing man on the walkway, frozen in a pirouette, that doubles up as a donation box.

Those details were the same then and now, but I cannot see them because I am sobbing head-first in a mountain of coats.

I am child, I am woman - both times, I am emptying out my lungs of all convulsing shudders, movements giving way until I am deep languid breaths. Occasional hiccups. A space cleared, a room laid ready for slumber.

It is early dusk by the time I snuffle out from scarfs and jerseys. The sea is gathering the last light, flushed pink and blue, footprints from former visits swollen with water.

I step out of the truck, close the door, lock it behind me. I start to walk, and as I do, I greet old Shame. My most loyal companion, who lingers by my side like a hunchbacked dog, wizened around the jowls. I give him everything he needs to feast upon, and he drinks gladly.

This time, I treat him a little differently. I consider him from a different angle. Not quite as alive as I thought - after all that, merely a curious shining pebble. I turn him over to his other side. He is malleable; not quite as dark and heavy as I once thought.

I can hold him, I think. I can stand him.

I'm not quite ready to cast you away, my friend, I think as I hold his warm body in my hand, the sea calling - but maybe soon.